Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(41)
He squeezed past his fans, his eyes refusing to leave mine, until we stood inches apart. Asher glanced around, increasingly uncomfortable with the peering eyes on us. He leaned in and whispered in my ear.
“Can we get out of here?”
I’d go anywhere with you.
All I could do was nod. I felt his hand squeeze mine, and lightning shot through me as if I were seventeen again—a girl with an entire world of opportunity in front of her in screaming color. After a moment, I realized my hand was still in his, as the biggest movie star on the planet, my ex-boyfriend, was pulling me past a gaping crowd and into a shiny Escalade.
I sat in the seat next to him in the SUV as his driver sped away from the Bowery Electric, my mind tripping over itself. He grinned out his window—brown eyes watching the lights and the people pass us by, taking in the universe the way he always had. I used to drown in his eyeline, collapse in the way he saw the world. I felt my body melting into the leather seat as he looked at me.
“Now,” he said.
I squished my brows together, confused.
“Now…what?”
Asher smiled, holding up his phone—the email that I had forgotten I sent him. “Now is when I’m going to tell you that you got the gig.”
My eyes were wide and there was a ringing in my ears.
“I got the gig? Are you fucking with me?”
He grinned even wider. I blinked back white spots in front of my eyes, and I felt heat envelop my body. I was floating. My jaw was wide open.
“I can’t believe you’re serious right now.”
“When have I not been serious?” Asher asked.
The answer was never.
“Amos loved you. He watched a few of your songs on YouTube after you left, and he was sold.” Asher smiled to himself. “I never needed any convincing.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Sorry to drag you out of there. I didn’t want to tell you in front of all those people. You’re in Union Square, right?”
I nodded.
“I have a super-early shoot tomorrow for Rolex, so we’re going to take you home first. Is that okay?”
I nodded again, still in shock.
“Can I take you out to dinner Wednesday night? We can talk shop, and…catch up?”
He waited for my reply, hopeful eyes on mine as his fingers fidgeted with the thin chain around his neck.
“Sounds good,” I finally said, bringing a smile to his lips.
“And you’re going to need an entertainment lawyer for your deal,” he noted. “Do you want me to send you some names?”
I blinked at him, shock once again holding my tongue captive. His eyes scanned mine.
“Maggie…?”
I let out a grin.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“It’s weird. Weird to hear you call me Maggie.”
He leaned toward me, the city lights shining in his kind eyes. “Hey, Mags. I can’t wait to see what you do with this music. You’re going to blow us away.”
I beamed back at him, because I believed it to be true.
Later that night, after I let his cheek brush mine for a moment too long, I hopped out of the Escalade with my guitar case in hand and a huge grin on my face. I had gone to my own funeral and I had been resurrected—which was complicated for a Jewish girl.
I floated into my studio apartment, ignored the mess of cascading dishes on the kitchen counter, plopped onto my bed, and smiled at the ceiling like an idiot. Before I could wrap my head around tangible success, my phone pinged with an email from Asher: the contact information for four different entertainment lawyers. He made sure to note that they were “the best of the best,” but also explained that none of them repped him, so there would be “zero conflicts of interest.”
With a clear road ahead of me, I googled the only female lawyer on Asher’s list, seeing that she was listed as one of Variety’s top entertainment lawyers. With a widening smile, and with the paper cuts on my soul mending, I emailed her.
23
THIRTY-FIVE
I TUGGED MY ARMS INTO a pair of long blue gloves, sweating as I looked at the time on the broken microwave in my studio. Like the genius I was, I set my phone alarm for 8:30 p.m., which was of zero help to wake me up at 8:30 a.m. I was about thirty minutes away from officially running late for today’s gig: singing “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” at a three-year-old’s birthday party inside New York’s glamorous event space, the Rainbow Room. I stood on my bed, which was the best way to get a good look at myself in the full-length mirror, and I haphazardly tugged on Elsa’s blond wig. The cape, the blue boots, the dress…I was a three-year-old’s dream.
I skipped down the stairs and opened the front door of my building, when suddenly, camera flashes blinded my eyes. Aggressive, sweaty men with loud voices and large lenses crowded my personal space.
“Maggie, how long have you been with Asher Reyes?”
“How did you meet Asher?”
“Maggie, is he in your apartment right now? Did he spend the night?”
“MAGGIE—”
I grew up envisioning what my eventual fame would be like, running through all the usual fame rite-of-passage scenarios: hearing my song on the radio for the first time, holding my Grammy as I thanked my dead dad, selling out Madison Square Garden. When I imagined what my first time being chased by the paparazzi would look like, I was not wearing a flammable Party City Elsa costume.